


i know you'd fool me again

by brella



Category: Community (TV)
Genre: F/M, Possibly Unrequited Love, post-advanced intro to finality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-15
Updated: 2014-03-15
Packaged: 2018-01-15 19:06:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1315948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brella/pseuds/brella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Britta would not describe Jeff's graduation party as "enjoyable."</p>
            </blockquote>





	i know you'd fool me again

**Author's Note:**

> This is pretty old, but it is a Thing.

The Dean lets them have an after-party for Jeff’s graduation in the study room. Britta isn’t 100% sure where the strings of twinkling lights and distinctly Edison-ish white lattice arrangements came from, but they’re there, and suddenly everybody’s dancing around to “September” and Britta’s standing in the corner with her third glass of champagne and wondering why this whole visual is making her really, really bummed out. 

 

Like, no, Maurice White, she  _doesn’t_  remember how we knew love was here to stay, because if love was here to stay, why is Jeff Keebler-Nose-Mutant-Butt-Crack-Sleazeball-Douche Winger  _leaving_? That’s just, like, an example; obviously the love isn’t coming from  _her_  end, since Jeff just spun Annie around and caught her perfectly in his arms and looked into her eyes instead of at her cleavage. 

Britta tosses back the last of the champagne in the glass. The lights are starting to have weird glowy trails in her peripheral. 

"Why aren’t you dancing?" Abed asks frankly, and Britta jumps, nearly dropping her glass. Note to self: for next semester, invest in new binders, blue highlighters (defy the highlighter gender norms!), and a bell for Abed. 

“‘Cause this song is lame?” Britta retorts a little sourly, unable to dredge up even the most tenuous of arguments about some sensitive social issue of the month. 

"That’s not what you were saying when you were dancing around to it in your underwear two months ago." Abed blinks analytically,  _exactly_  like some kind of overgrown praying mantis, yeah, Jeff, you watch her steal your simile; you just watch. 

Britta doesn’t even have the sense to flush red. 

"Fine," she snaps, foisting her glass into his hand. "You want me to dance? I’ll dance." 

Because the universe hates her, that’s right when the song ends. It segués straight into this song by Wham! that is the absolute  _last song_  that should be playing at a time like this, even though the Dean is clapping his hands joyfully and already singing along. 

"Your life really is a sitcom, Britta," Abed comments, gazing with concentration at the empty champagne glass. 

Britta ignores him and marches – a little unevenly – out onto the open dance floor, coming to a halt at the center of it all and feeling stifled in her dress and her hairspray, her throat starting to close up from the suddenly fearsome need for some stronger booze. Pierce goes moonwalking by with a lampshade on his head. 

Britta dances alone, ungainly sways of hips and arhythmically clapping hands, keeping her eyes trained on the carpet. She’s not normally this awful, but she’s having trouble bringing herself to even care about the melody, or the party, or her friends, or Jeff, at all. There’s something thick and uncomfortably lukewarm in the pit of her stomach, and it feels like it’s getting bigger and sharper with every spin and stomp. 

Suddenly, her thrilling view of a coffee stain on the carpet is interrupted by the appearance of a freakishly large hand. She doesn’t stop moving, half-turning fluidly away from it and clapping her hands on the beat, focusing on the opposite wall. 

She hears a sigh. Suddenly, it’s starting to come back to her – why these light strings and lattices are making her feel like she’s about to puke. 

"Come on," Jeff coaxes her, but there’s an edge of smugness to his words that wrinkles Britta’s nose. "It’s kinda hard to exuberantly celebrate my freedom from Greendale when my best friend won’t even look at me." 

Britta half-turns back, tilting her chin down to fix her attention on Jeff’s shoes. They’re black. Boring. 

"You’ve got like five other friends and the Dean to look at," she bites back. "You’ll live." 

"Britta," Jeff mutters, in that  _way_  that he always does, like she’s being super unreasonable. 

"I’m fine," she snaps, even though that has literally nothing to do with what he’s talking about. "Go do The Breakfast Club dance with Abed or something." 

"Did you mean what you said?" Jeff asks after a second. "Are you really gonna miss me the most?" 

Britta loses her rhythm and sways, and her left ankle twists in her stiletto, sending a stab of pain up her calf, but she doesn’t fall. She bites the inside of her cheek and prays for this stupid song to be over, prays for Annie to wander between them so Jeff will stop staring at her. 

Abruptly, the song comes to a halt mid-lyric, and everyone’s heads turn to see that Abed and Troy have accosted the DJ station. Britta opens her mouth to say something, even though she has no idea what, but Abed grasps the microphone before she can.

"We feel this is an appropriate song for the evening," he says. "We being me and Troy. And we got distracted by the Nutella, so we wanted to make sure we played this before we forgot. Thanks." 

Abed then looks up to Britta and catches her eye. She swallows. He winks and pokes a button on the keyboard, and immediately, that… whatever; that one song from  _The Breakfast Club_ , that starts playing.

"Group dance!" Annie yells, and Troy whoops out his approval.

In the bustle to arrange the group into an adequate formation for joined dancing, Britta slips out between the lattices and the fake leaf arrangements, toeing her heels off at the door. When she glances over her shoulder, she sees Jeff staring at her – the only one who’s noticed that she’s not there for Pierce to grind awkwardly against – and holds his gaze for a beat too long before striding away, the sounds of the music and the laughter fading further and further out of reach until she can’t even remember how to dance to begin with. 


End file.
